Puppeteer
by xPhineasx
Summary: To whomever finds this tattered broken diary, I'm going to tell you a secret.  I am Tom Riddle, and this is the story of the red headed girl whom I so badly wanted to corrupt.


This fanfic is a gift to a friend of mine. She requested it and once again, my requested fics prove to be raunchier and dirtier than expected. I wrote the majority of this fic while in vacation in Orlando (Yes. At the Harry Potter Theme park. Jealous? It was amazing. Seriously.) Thanks for reading.

Also, I have to give a shout out to me dear friend Mishelle who read over this fic during out lay over in the Atlanta airport and helped me name it. You rock.

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Puppeteer

Rated: M

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To whomever finds this tattered broken diary, I'm going to tell you a secret. Though these pages are soaked in ink and blood and basilisk venom, I have used the very last of my strength to record my final story. If you have found this message then read on and know my last thoughts.

I am Tom Marvolo Riddle. I am Lord Voldemort. You have heard of me. Everyone, every man, every woman, every child, witch, wizard, and squib has heard of me. To be more accurate, I am Lord Voldemort as I was at the age of 16, a bright, no, brilliant boy with plans to change the world. I had plans, such great and wondrous plans, plans that would change the wizarding world forever, and in fact, they did. I would lead the magical world in triumph and glory over the Muggles that, like parasites on a noble host, sucked the life out of the world.

The first step was the purify my home, my school, of the mudbloods that dirtied it. I was so anxious to begin and in my rush, in my haste to do all the things I planned, I made a blunder. I opened the chamber of secrets too early and the threat surfaced that Hogwarts, my home, would be closed. I could not allow this. But still, with the death of the mudblood girl I made my very first Horcrux, thanks to dear Professor Slughorn's bloody big mouth. It was not a total waste.

And I, The memory of the 16 year old Tom Riddle, was left in my journal to wait while the rest of me continued to grow and live and eventually fall to ruin. And so I waited. I waited for years, passed into the hands of the trusted Lucius Malfoy and then into the mailable palms of the dear Ginny Weasley when the time was right.

11 years old and already a beautiful girl, Ginny held my journal in her soft hands and wrote her whispered confessions in my pages. She had freckles on her cheeks and red hair and an innocence that begged to be destroyed. She was a nervous tittering thing, full of youthful gullibility and credulity.

I wanted her.

Her flaming hair and just barely forming curves reminded me so vividly of another girl from another time, another red haired lion cub, long ago, who I so badly wanted to corrupt. My Minerva, with her cold stares and ready wit, had eluded me in school, and my Ginny was so much like her. My Minerva had turned away from my gaze, slapped away my caresses and snubbed my brilliance. She saw too deeply into my soul and she did not trust me. But Ginny was not as sharp as Minerva. I was simply the sweet voice of her diary, listening to her problems, her growing feelings for the Potter boy, her worries about classes and family. She trusted me, a deadly mistake.

And so slowly I took her mind. I made her write on walls in blood and open my chamber. I made her strip her clothes, alone in the bathroom before the mirror and run her hands across her freckled skin. I made her summon the beast and send it after her mudblood classmates, petrifying the pathetic squib's cat and dirty muggle borns. I took her mind in her sleep, her motions under my control, her hands slipping down between her thighs, my voice and my mind in her dreams. Her hands, my hands, feeling and stroking her most private places. I savored her gasps and moans and blank eyes as I used her body like a puppet to bring her 11 year old body to an orgasm. But I wanted more.

She tried to throw me away, scared of her lost memory and the horrifying attacks. She knew she must have had something to do with it, and she wanted it to end. But I would not be kept away. Soon enough I was back in her possession and I led her down into my chamber.

There she lay, cold and growing colder on the wet stone of the Chamber of Secrets, her life ebbing out into me. With every second I became more substantial, she became colder. I was no longer just a memory, no longer translucent. I knew what I would do.

I crawled over Ginny Weasley, placing a butterfly kiss on her lips. Slowly, savoring the moment, I slid her panties out from under her skirt, lifted and spread her thighs, and slid my fingers into her. Her body stirred slightly, a soft moan from her chilled lips.

"T-tom." She whispered, barely awake. "P-please, don't." I smirked. I had thought she was out by now, but it seemed she still had a few minutes of consciousness left. Her noises would make this so much more pleasurable.

I could feel life, her life, flowing through my veins and into the crotch of my pants. It had been nearly half a century since that sensation ran through me. I unbuttoned my trousers, sliding my stiffening cock out. I removed my fingers from dear Ginny's skirt and replaced them with my member, stiff and sweating.

I do not readily admit to fits of passion and unbound emotion, but as I slid into the girl below me, her whimpering moans floating into my hears, her inner muscles tightening around me, I nearly lost myself, I admit. She was small and tight, and I knew that my size hurt her. I smirked at the thought. As I began to rock in and out of her I felt more and more of my thoughts slip away. Ginny had gone silent, tears cooling in the corners of her still eyes. Too much of her life pouring into me as I poured it back into her.

One of my hands tangled in her wild red hair. I was back, in control, euphoric and triumphant. As I stole my pleasure from Ginny I could see my future bursting behind my eyes. The girl would die, my seed drying on her thighs and I would emerge from my chamber into the school that was so long my home. I would chase the last of Dumbledore's supporters from these walls and rise above the rest of the magic world. It was with these thoughts in my mind that I was finally rocked into orgasm.

I slid out slowly, refastening my pants. The girl was no longer moving, her breathing little more than a whisper. I pocketed her panties, a souvenir to remember the experience and stood back. Fixing my hair, I went to sit at the base of the large statue that over looked the chamber. Here I would wait and snatch the very last traces of Ginny Weasley's life.

I did not predict that mere minutes later the brave and noble Harry Potter would arrive to save the girl, to kill my basilisk and destroy the journal that held my soul. It is a shame, I reflect, that Potter didn't arrive just a few minutes before so that he could watch me fuck his blood traitor little girlfriend. But these are bitter thoughts indeed. It is my dying wish that what ever is left of me, whatever pieces of Tom Riddle remain in the world, will avenge my death, and that Ginny Weasley, while never speaking a word of it, always remembers my caresses.


End file.
